One Night By the Fire
by Oceans in Hand
Summary: Perhaps it's possible that Blodhgarm's husky scent works on more than just women. Blodhgarm/Eragon slash, because *someone* had to do it.


**One Night, By the Fire…**

It is sometime in the second week, on their way home to the Varden's base, that the thought passes Eragon's mind—perhaps, perhaps, it's possible that Blodhgarm's husky scent works on more than just women.

_Because. Well, because—_Eragon groans with frustration, inwardly. The only visible hint to the rolling seas of his confusion is his suddenly heavy head, his hands coming up to support it. Arya and the blue-devil himself do not pause in their conversation—not in the slightest, but Eragon knows that they have carefully observed and stored away this small sign for future evaluation. Or, who knows. Maybe they're already trying to puzzling out its meaning. Maybe they're even trying to, together.

He feels the large, but gentle presence of Saphira's mind bump against his encouragingly. _Go on, Eragon. _She bids softly.

His fingers tighten reflexively on the small piece of wood he's whittling away at, the sharp, bone-handle knife he's using to do it. Heat fills his cheeks.

_I am in love with Arya. I am devoted to her, Saphira._

_Then perhaps what you feel for the furred-one is more base than your feelings for Ariya. You are still young, Eragon, and you bear many responsibilities. Is it not to be expected, such desires?_

The blush darkens. _Usually not for other men, Saphira. I'll be a laughingstock._

She easily dismisses this; he hears a ghost of her belittling snort in his head. _People hold you in too high respect_

_That only makes it worse. _Eragon moans. _They will laugh behind my back._

Saphira sighs, long and almost weary. He remembers the little pains and abrasions that mar her midnight hide—the very aches she had almost demanded be left unhealed. Eragon thinks he knows why she insisted so, but he rather wishes he hadn't figured it out—it's a very private reason. He would have much preferred to ask, and be told.

_You are determined to be melancholy, Eragon. You know how such moods vex me._

_As if you have not indulged in your _own_ moments of self-pity._

_On occasion, _she sniffs, _it is acceptable. You seem to be taken more and more by such 'moments', as you so charitably put it._

Eragon restrains a very audible growl and stands, whirling to face Saphira, coiled up for the night. Her bottomless eyes, like the depths of the sky between each star, watch him over the warm curl of her tail.

_I am attracted to a _man_, Saphira! This is—I am—…people w-will…!_

Eragon feels the sting of tears at the corner of his eyes and claps his hands over his face in the moment before they spill over. The gesture accomplishes little—Arya and Blodhgarm are too watchful, too prepared—they will surely smell the hint of salt that hits the air.

It is only after Eragon has resigned himself to explaining his impromptu cry—_dust in my eye, _the old classic—that he feels the pressure of multiple consciousnesses against his, like the body of a parent, a sibling, a lover on a cold night. And of course, only one of them is his dragon. His eyes go wide and fearful beneath his hands, and he can't find it in himself to move.

Saphira shifts uncertainly, catching Arya's stunned stare to convey an unspoken message. The elf-woman nods, always the wise one, and stands in a liquid motion, dusting leaves from her trousers.

"I think I will go for wood." She says in a tone the invites no argument. Saphira slowly unfolds her body and stretches her wings. _And I think nothing would be lovelier than a cool midnight flight. I will return in a moment._

Eragon is buffeted by the gust of her wings as she thrusts her heavy body away from the earth. He stumbles backwards, a stone rolling beneath his boot, and misses his chance to correct the fall. His arms stretch behind him to catch his body and save himself the impact, when warm, strong, arms appear beneath each of his, and support him. His body does not touch the dirt.

Blodhgarm's scent pervades his senses, overwhelming him so thoroughly that for a moment he is lightheaded, and cannot think. The furred-elf's odor is like the sweet, tart smell of sweat on a body after a long, good day's work; like the woody aroma of the bark of ancient trees in the most sacred reaches of Du Weldenvarden; like the inescapable, thick stink of overripe fruit. The young Dragon Rider's head swims, and he gasps once, the tiniest intakes of breath.

But it is enough. He feels Blodhgarm flinch minutely where their bodies touch, and suddenly he can scarcely recall a time when he has been so ashamed and humiliated. Wrenching himself from the tall elf's grasp, he fumbles, shaking, to the flat-topped stone he had taken as his perch for the night. Reclaiming the bit of wood and the bone-knife in trembling hands, he poises the blade to cut away the chip that, once gone, will make the broad shoulder of an Urgal.

He bites savagely at his bottom lip, unable to make the cut. He knows with stanch certainty that if he tries, he will ruin his little carving.

Eragon closes his eyes as he feels Blodhgarm's mind brush his, like a leaf blown over the ground. He jerks his chin in a tiny shake, denying the elf entrance to his mind, and hears the sigh that comes from his back. Instead, the elf crouches down at his side.

After a moment, a small span of seconds that is acutely painful for Eragon, he speaks.

"Shadeslayer…it is not…" Blodhgarm clears his throat. His body is tense in such a way, Eragon knows that if he were human, he would be shuffling, fidgeting uneasily. He takes a shallow breath, and when he speaks again it is with considerably more conviction. "There is nothing wrong with finding members of the same sex attractive. No one is hurt."

Eragon watches him from the corner of his eye. He can feel the heat from the elf's fur wafting away from him, to him, and the smell is steadily filling his head, like a poisonous fog. He swallows, trying to bring some amount of wet back to his mouth. It has become dry as desert sand.

Finally, he is able to reply. "But, some will still-"

"Ah, but you would you ordinarily spare a thought to the comfort of such people?" Blodhgarm rests his elbows on his knees. When Eragon says nothing, he continues, adding, "If they must take offense from something such as that, something that is perfectly harmless, and concerns them in no way—what does it matter?"

Eragon eyes are finally able to drift from the elf's animal features, and he looks down again to the little carving in his hands. He has tightened his fist, clutched it like a worry stone, and it has broken beneath the strength of his grip. Grimacing, he shows the twisted remains to Blodhgarm, before tossing them into the fire. The flames snap and spark greedily as the dry chips are quickly devoured.

Eragon licks his lips, watching the heart of the flame, the blue at its center flicker and dance; blue like the glossy fur of Blodhgarm's chest. He almost wants to touch it.

"You…may be right." He relents, and tells himself to ignore the relief, the quiet whoosh of air his sensitive ears catch as Blodhgarm breathes out.

The elongated tips of those ears twitch as gravel and soil are disturbed by the slide of the elf's padded foot.

Eragon finds himself, however reluctantly, curious. Elves are not known for making unnecessary movements.

Blodhgarm's cat-slitted eyes focus loosely on something deep in the trees.

Eragon startles when he asks, "What man is it you find yourself…longing for?"

The young Rider's ears pink with a rising flush. He stares moodily into the flames.

"Surely you have puzzled that out for yourself, by now."

Unwillingly, he recalls the heat of the elf's chest at his back, the strength in his deceptively slender arms. The gentle scrap of those wicked claws on his front and sides.

Eragon's gaze is drawn by the sound Blodhgarm's feet again, shifting in the rocky dirt. The elf looks to him and their eyes meet; the Rider is startled by the half-lidded and smoldering, but at once _lazy_ look in the furred-elf's eye.

"I would like to hear it properly said." Blodhgarm says is a thick voice, low, a light flashing over his irises. "You understand."

Eragon feels as if he is trying to swallow wax. "Aye," he breathes.

A purr, or perhaps a growl tears from the furred-elf's throat, originating from deep in his chest, and he lunges for the Rider before another word can be spoken. Eragon cries out, a sound more at home on the battle fields that anywhere else, his hands tightening so on the elf's arms, there can be no blood flowing to his hands.

Blodhgarm's razor sharp teeth gnaw and nip delicately at Eragon's neck, making little stars of appetizing pain pop before his eyes and leaving behind marks that will take days to heal. As his hands rove over the soft blue fur, as he crushes his mouth to the elf's shoulder, he groans. Blodhgarm's claws slice through his shirt and vest on either side, and there is a burn here and there where, in his excitement and hast, the elf has applied too much pressure. Long scores of varying depth draw down Eragon's flanks, but for some reason, the pain only makes him cling more tightly to the squirming animal in his arms.

Teeth mark a path up his neck, his chin, to his bottom lip and the young Rider moans blissfully when they connect in a wet, open-mouthed kiss. The blue-furred elf tastes as good as he looks, better than he smells, and Eragon's tongue stabs into the heat of his mouth, trailing along the perilous points of those fangs and moving into the rough touches from the elf's own tongue. Distantly, he commands his hands to release their crushing hold on the elf's forearms, and instead he sets to opening the other's shirt. But the task is no more easily done than thought (and it took a second to form that thought), and perhaps two, too-fast heartbeats later, Eragon has gone the path of impatience and torn the soft, elfen-made fabric down the middle.

The fur of Blodhgarm's torso is fluffed up, standing on end, and his skin beneath is feverishly warm—hot under Eragon's stroking hands. Claws rake down the front of his pants and the Rider muffles a scream—from sensation, from fright, surprise—against the elf's cheek. And then the smooth skin of the elf's palm is around him, massaging him until he begins to—to—mewl. To gasp and writhe and keen, turning his face into the hot, damp gusts of Blodhgarm's pants on his neck. The elf's erection he feels through cloth, and a soft, fragile noise like a whine leaves his throat as he pushes his hand down past his lover's belt and, taking the silky, burning hot handful in a firm grip, strokes, making a tight ring with his fingers. Blodhgarm bucks against him with an animal snarl, on its heels a low whimper.

Blodhgarm presses his face into Eragon's cheek, sharing his air, pushing into his space. Opening his eyes to focus on the Rider's, Eragon moans once, muscles shuddering, and allows the elf's licking probes to enter. With a long, peaceful sigh, he experiences a feeling like a good stretch after a nap in the sun, and smiles at the sound, like a sweet wind, of Blodhgarm's mind whispering to his, with nothing dividing them. Elfen words fall like rain between them, Blodhgarm's flowing and smooth, crisp sounds and husky, loving undertones; Eragon's, stuttering and halting, his grasp of the language still relatively weak, but his words, their meaning, the emotions that bleed from him, making up for all of it.

He cries out when the shaking elf grasps both on them in one hand, his slim fingers folding over the Rider's, threading through. They thrust and buck in tandem, breath picking up, sounds coming, half-formed. Eragon rolls his head over the ground, pressing his chest closer to Blodhgarm's, delighting in the feeling of blur fur on his skin.

* * *

**These books lost most of their appeal after I turned fourteen =_= But there was a fairly obvious lack of this pairing, and it was kind of fun to emulate Paolini's syrupy prose :)**

**Please enjoy~**

**-Oceans**


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